The In Death Collection, Books 1-5

by J. D. Robb

  “What did you see?” Eve said slowly, snatching the credits out of reach.

  “A guy pissing in the alley over there.” She shrugged, her eyes focused on the credits. “Maybe jerking off. Hard to tell.”

  “Did he have anything with him? Was he carrying anything?”

  “Just his dick.” She laughed uproariously at that and nearly tumbled. Her eyes were beginning to water heavily. “He just walked away in the rain. Hardly anybody out that night. Guy got in a car.”

  “Same guy?”

  “Nah, another guy, had it parked over there.” She gestured vaguely. “Not from ’round here.”

  “Why?”

  “Car had a shine to it. Nobody got a car with a shine to it ’round here. If they got a car. Now Crack, he’s got one, and that pissant Reeve down the hall from me. But they don’t shine.”

  “Tell me about the guy who got in the car.”

  “Got in the car, drove away.”

  “What time was it?”

  “Hey, I look like a clock. Ticktock.” She snorted another laugh. “It was nighttime. Nighttime’s the best. My eyes hurt in daytime,” she whined. “Lost my sunshields.”

  Eve dragged a pair of eye protectors out of her pocket. She never remembered to wear the damn things, anyway. She shoved them at the albino, who hooked them on.

  “Cheap. Cop issue. Shit.”

  “What was he wearing? The guy who got in the car.”

  “Hell, I don’t know.” The junkie toyed with the sunglasses. Her eyes didn’t burn quite so much behind the treated lenses. “A coat maybe. Dark coat, flapped around. Yeah, it flapped around when he was closing the umbrella.”

  Eve felt a jolt, like a punch in the stomach. “He had an umbrella?”

  “Hey, it was raining. Some people don’t like getting wet. Pretty,” she said, dreaming again. “Bright.”

  “What color was it?”

  “Bright,” she repeated. “You going to give me those credits?”

  “Yeah, you’re going to get them.” But Eve took her arm, led her to the broken steps of the building, and sat her down. “But let’s talk about this a little more first.”

  “The uniforms missed her.” Eve paced her office while Feeney lolled in her chair. “She went into detox the day after the first murder. I checked it. She got out a week ago.”

  “You got an albino addict,” Feeney put in.

  “She saw him, Feeney. She saw him get in a car, she saw the umbrella.”

  “You know what a funky junkie’s vision’s like, Dallas. In the dark, in the rain, from across the street?”

  “She gave me the umbrella. Goddamn it, nobody knew about the umbrella.”

  “And the color was, I quote, bright.” He held up both hands before Eve could snap at him. “I’m just trying to save you some grief. You got an idea of putting the Angelinis in a lineup for a funky junkie, their lawyers are going to whip your little ass, kid.”

  She had thought of it. And she, too, had rejected it. “She wouldn’t hold up on direct ID. I’m not stupid. But it was a man, she’s damn sure of that. He drove away. He had the umbrella. He was wearing a long coat, dark.”

  “Which jibes with David Angelini’s statement.”

  “It was a new car. I juggled that out of her. Shiny, bright.”

  “Back with bright.”

  “So, they don’t see colors well,” she snarled. “The guy was alone, and the car was a small, personal vehicle. The driver’s side door opened up, not to the side, and he had to swivel down to get in.”

  “Could be a Rocket, a Midas, or a Spur. Maybe a Midget, if it’s a late model.”

  “She said new, and she’s got a thing for cars. Likes to watch them.”

  “Okay, I’ll run it.” He gave a sour smile. “Any idea how many of those models been sold in the last two years in the five boroughs alone? Now, if she’d come up with an ID plate, even a partial—”

  “Quit bitching. I’ve been back over Metcalf’s. There’s a couple dozen bright new cars in the garage there.”

  “Oh joy.”

  “Possibility he’s a neighbor,” Eve said with a shrug. It was a very low possibility. “Wherever he lives, he has to be able to get in and out without being noticed. Or where people don’t notice. Maybe he leaves the coat in the car, or he puts it in something to get it inside and clean it up. There’s going to be blood in that car, Feeney, and on that coat, no matter how much he’s scrubbed and sprayed. I’ve got to get over to Channel 75.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “I need to talk to Nadine. She’s dodging me.”

  “Jesus, talk about the lion’s den.”

  “Oh, I’ll be fine.” She smiled viciously. “I’m taking Roarke with me. They’re scared of him.”

  “It’s so sweet of you to ask for my company.” Roarke pulled his car into the visitors’ lot at Channel 75 and beamed at her. “I’m touched.”

  “All right, I owe you.” The man never let her get away with anything, Eve thought in disgust as she climbed out of the car.

  “I’ll collect.” He caught her arm. “You can start paying off by telling me why you want me along.”

  “I told you, it’ll save time, since you want to go to this opera thing.”

  Very slowly, very thoroughly, he scanned over her dusty trousers and battered boots. “Darling Eve, though you always look perfect to me, you’re not going to the opera dressed like that. So we’re going to have to go home to change, anyway. Come clean.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to go to the opera.”

  “So you’ve already said. Several times, I believe. But we had a deal.”

  She lowered her brows, toyed with one of the buttons of his shirt. “It’s just singing.”

  “I’ve agreed to sit through two sets at the Blue Squirrel, with the idea of helping Mavis into a recording contract. And no one—no one with ears—would consider that singing of any kind.”

  She huffed out a breath. A deal was, after all, a deal. “Okay, fine. I said I’m going.”

  “Now that you’ve managed to avoid the question, I’ll repeat it. Why am I here?”

  She looked up from his button, into his face. It was always hell for her to admit she could use help. “Feeney’s got to dig into the E-work. He can’t be spared right now. I want another pair of eyes, ears, another impression.”

  His lips curved. “So, I’m your second choice.”

  “You’re my first civilian choice. You read people well.”

  “I’m flattered. And perhaps, while I’m here, I could break Morse’s face for you.”

  Her grin came quickly. “I like you, Roarke. I really like you.”

  “I like you, too. Is that a yes? I’d enjoy it very much.”

  She laughed, but there was a part of her that warmed foolishly over the idea of having an avenger. “It’s a happy thought, Roarke, but I’d really rather break his face myself. At the right time and in the right place.”

  “Can I watch?”

  “Sure. But for the moment, can you just be the rich and powerful Roarke, my personal trophy?”

  “Ah, how sexist. I’m excited.”

  “Good. Hold that thought. Maybe we’ll skip the opera after all.”

  They walked together through the main entrance, and Roarke had the pleasure of watching her shrug on the cop. She flashed her badge at security, gave him a pithy suggestion that he keep out of her face, then strode toward the ascent.

  “I love to watch you work,” he murmured in her ear. “You’re so . . . forceful,” he decided as his hand slid down her back toward her butt.

  “Cut it out.”

  “See what I mean?” He rubbed his gut where her elbow had jabbed. “Hit me again. I could learn to love it.”

  She managed, barely, to turn a chuckle into a snort. “Civilians,” was all she said.

  The newsroom was busy, noisy. At least half of the on-desk reporters were plugged into ’links, headsets, or computers. Screens flashed current broadcasts. A
number of conversations stopped dead when Eve and Roarke stepped from the ascent. Then, like a horde of dogs with the same scent in their nostrils, reporters scrambled forward.

  “Back off,” Eve ordered with enough force to have one eager beaver stumbling backward and stomping on the foot of a cohort. “Nobody gets a comment. Nobody gets squat until I’m ready.”

  “If I do buy this place,” Roarke said to Eve in a voice just loud enough to carry, “I’ll have to make several staff cuts.”

  That created a swath wide enough to stride through. Eve zeroed in on a face she recognized. “Rigley, where’s Furst?”

  “Hey, Lieutenant.” He was all teeth and hair and ambition. “If you’d like to step into my office,” he invited, gesturing toward his console.

  “Furst,” she repeated, in a voice like a bullet. “Where?”

  “I haven’t seen her all day. I covered her morning report myself.”

  “She called in.” Beaming smiles, Morse sauntered over. “Taking some time off,” he explained, and his mobile face shifted to sober lines. “She’s pretty ripped up about Louise. We all are.”

  “Is she at home?”

  “Said she needed some time, is all I know. Management cut her a break. She’s got a couple of weeks coming. I’m taking over her beat.” His smile flashed again. “So, if you’d like a little airtime, Dallas. I’m your man.”

  “I’ve had plenty of your airtime, Morse.”

  “Well then.” He dismissed her and shifted toward Roarke. His smile bumped up in wattage. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’re a difficult man to contact.”

  Deliberately insulting, Roarke ignored Morse’s offered hand. “I only give time to people I consider interesting.”

  Morse lowered his hand, but kept his smile in place. “I’m sure if you spared me a few minutes, I’d find several areas of interest for you.”

  Roarke’s smile flashed, quick and lethal. “You really are an idiot, aren’t you.”

  “Down, boy,” Eve murmured, patting Roarke’s arm. “Who leaked confidential data?”

  Morse was obviously struggling to recover his dignity. He veered his gaze to hers and nearly managed an arrogant sneer. “Now, now, sources are protected. Let’s not forget the Constitution.” Patriotically, he laid his palm over his heart. “Now, if you wish to comment on, contradict, or add to any of my information, I’d be more than happy to listen.”

  “Why don’t we try this?” she said, shifting gears. “You found Louise Kirski’s body—while it was still warm.”

  “That’s right.” He folded his mouth into grim lines. “I’ve given my statement.”

  “You were pretty upset, weren’t you? Jittery. Shot your dinner in the bushes. Feeling better now?”

  “It’s something I’ll never forget, but yes, I’m feeling better. Thanks for asking.”

  She stepped forward, backing him up. “You felt good enough to go on air within minutes, to make sure there was a camera out there getting a nice close-up of your dead associate.”

  “Immediacy is part of the business. I did what I was trained to do. That doesn’t mean I didn’t feel.” His voice trembled and was manfully controlled. “That doesn’t mean I don’t see her face, her eyes, every time I try to sleep at night.”

  “Did you ever wonder what would have happened if you’d gotten there five minutes sooner?”

  That jarred him, and though she knew it was nasty, and personal, it pleased her.

  “Yes, I have,” he said with dignity. “I might have seen him or stopped him. Louise might be alive if I hadn’t been caught in traffic. But that doesn’t change the facts. She’s dead, and so are two others. And you don’t have anyone in custody.”

  “Maybe it hasn’t occurred to you that you’re feeding him. That you’ve given him just what he wants.” She took her gaze from Morse long enough to scan the room and all the people who were listening eagerly. “He must love watching all the reports, hearing all the details, the speculation. You’ve made him the biggest star on the screen.”

  “It’s our responsibility to report—” Morse began.

  “Morse, you don’t know shit about responsibility. All you know is how to count the minutes you’re on air, front and center. The more people die, the bigger your ratings. You can quote me on that one.” She turned on her heel.

  “Feel better?” Roarke asked her when they were outside again.

  “Not a hell of a lot. Impressions?”

  “The newsroom’s in turmoil, too many people doing too many things. They’re all jumpy. The one you talked to initially about Nadine?”

  “Rigley. He’s a little fish. I think they hired him for his teeth.”

  “He’s been biting his nails. There were several others who looked ashamed when you made your little speech. They turned away, got very busy, but they weren’t doing anything. Several more looked quietly pleased when you took a couple layers off Morse. I don’t believe he’s well liked.”

  “Big surprise.”

  “He’s better than I’d thought,” Roarke mused.

  “Morse? At what? Slinging shit?”

  “Image,” Roarke corrected. “Which is often the same thing. He pulls out all those emotions. He doesn’t feel any of them, but he knows how to make them play over his face, in his voice. He’s in the right field and will definitely move up.”

  “God help us.” She leaned against Roarke’s car. “Do you think he knows more than he’s put on air?”

  “I think it’s possible. Highly possible. He’s enjoying stringing this out, particularly now that he’s in charge of the story. And he hates your guts.”

  “Oh, now I’m hurt.” She started to open the door, then turned back. “Hates me?”

  “He’ll ruin you if he can. Watch yourself.”

  “He can make me look foolish, but he can’t ruin me.” She wrenched the door open. “Where the hell is Nadine? It’s not like her, Roarke. I understand how she feels about Louise, but it’s not like her to take off, not to tell me, to hand a story this size to that bastard.”

  “People react in different ways to shock and grief.”

  “It’s stupid. She was a target. She could still be a target. We have to find her.”

  “Is that your way of squirming out of the opera?”

  Eve got in the car, stretched out her legs. “No, that’s just a little side benefit. Let’s run by her place, okay? She’s on Eightieth between Second and Third.”

  “All right. But you have no excuse to squirm out of the cocktail party tomorrow night.”

  “Cocktail party? What cocktail party?”

  “The one I arranged fully a month ago,” he reminded her as he slipped in beside her. “To kick off the fund-raiser for the Art Institute on Station Grimaldi. Which you agreed to attend and to help host.”

  She remembered, all right. He’d brought home some fancy dress she was supposed to wear. “Wasn’t I drunk when I agreed? The word of a drunk is worthless.”

  “No, you weren’t.” He smiled as he skimmed from the visitors’ lot. “You were, however, naked, panting, and I believe very close to begging.”

  “Bull.” Actually, she thought, folding her arms, he may have been right. The details were hazy. “Okay, okay, I’ll be there, I’ll be there with a stupid smile in some fancy dress that cost you too much money for too little material. Unless . . . something comes up.”

  “Something?”

  She sighed. He only asked her to do one of his silly gigs when it was important to him. “Police business. Only if it’s urgent police business. Barring that, I’ll stick for the whole fussy mess.”

  “I don’t suppose you could try to enjoy it?”

  “Maybe I could.” She turned her head and on impulse lifted a hand to his cheek. “A little.”

  chapter eighteen

  No one answered the buzzer at Nadine’s door. The recording requested simply that the caller leave a message, which would be returned at the earliest possible time.

  “Sh
e could be in there brooding,” Eve mused, rocking on her heels as she considered. “Or she could be at some tony resort. She slipped her guard plenty over the past few days. She’s a slick one, our Nadine.”

  “And you’ll feel better if you know.”

  “Yeah.” Brow furrowed, Eve considered using her police emergency code to bypass security. She didn’t have enough cause, and she balled her hands in her pockets.

  “Ethics,” Roarke said. “It’s always an education to watch you struggle with them. Let me help you out.” He took out a small pocket knife and pried open the handplate.

  “Jesus, Roarke, tampering with security will get you six months house arrest.”

  “Um-hmm.” Calmly, he studied the circuits. “I’m a bit out of practice. We make this model, you know.”

  “Put that damn thing back together, and don’t—”

  But he was already bypassing the main board, working with a speed and efficiency that made her wince.

  “Out of practice, my butt,” she mumbled when the lock light went from red to green.

  “I always had a knack.” The door slid open, and he tugged her inside.

  “Security tampering, breaking and entering, private property trespass. Oh, it’s just mounting up.”

  “But you’ll wait for me, won’t you?” With one hand still on Eve’s arm, he studied the living area. It was clean, cool, spare in furnishings, but with an expensive minimalistic style.

  “She lives well,” he commented, noting the gleam on the tile floor, the few objects d’art on spearing clear pedestals. “But she doesn’t come here often.”

  Eve knew he had a good eye, and nodded. “No, she doesn’t really live here, just sleeps here sometimes. There’s nothing out of place, no dents in the cushions.” She walked past him toward the adjoining kitchen, punched the available menu on the AutoChef. “Doesn’t keep a lot of food on hand, either. Mostly cheese and fruit.”

  Eve thought about her empty stomach, was tempted, but resisted. She headed out across the wide living space toward a bedroom. “Office,” she stated, studying the equipment, the console, the wide screen it faced. “She lives here some. Shoes under the console, single earring by the link, empty cup, probably coffee.”